The Brotherhood: Blood (23 page)

Much like a piece of paper crumbling under pressure, the flame shrunk, hissed as fire does when fuel is added to it, then pulsed and burped a plume of white before disappearing altogether.

The teacher, now in hysterics more than ever, thrust himself to his feet and clapped.

“Very good, very good!” the man said, clapping so hard that for a moment the boy wondered just whether or not the man’s wrists would disengage from his arms entirely. “Very good, Odin.”

Professor Daughtry’s face lit up in a smile. Odin barely nodded.

“Hey,” the man said, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up. You’re doing great.”

Instantly, Odin’s muscle tensed under the pressure of touch, as if he’d just been struck far greater than he really had been, and reacted as if he were a shelled animal bearing its defenses when touched by outside stimuli.

In response to this sudden, almost-unnerving recognition, one of the few high mages of the kingdom of Ornala pulled his head back and offered a frown. “Does it hurt when I touch you?” he asked.

“No,” Odin said.

Yes,
he thought.

Because you’re not. You don’t care because it doesn’t affect you at all.

Living, alone, with his daughter, in the Outer District, in a place where normality seemed all the more peaceful and separated from such a thing as royal imprisonment—this man, this
high mage,
had not a thing in the world to worry about, for his life was just as simple as any common man’s would be. But here he was—Odin Karussa, of Felnon descent, and sixteen-years-old—imprisoned in a tower for a crime and penance he had yet to ever commit. To think that Daughtry, though kind, actually cared for him, would have been idiotic, and for that Odin bowed his head and stared at the floor—that same, dirty floor in which he had spent the last two years of his life in.

Daughtry, in response to this enlightened accusation, began to gather his things up—first the sack he routinely carried to the tower every other day, then the leather-bound book that had become a staple in each of their lessons. He stared at this for several long moments, as if judging its form, before pushing it out to Odin, who merely raised his head.

“Here you go,” the magic man said.

“Sir?”

“It’ll help,” Daughtry smiled, pressing the tome into Odin’s hands. “I know you like to read, but textbooks can get a little boring after a while, especially considering that you’ve probably read most, if not everything about the kingdom. At least this will keep you entertained
and
learning.”

“Are you sure you want me to have this? What if I—”

“I’d prefer if you wait for me to be present before you attempt any of the magic, but I won’t stop you. You’ve got a better grasp on your powers than most boys your age to.”

“That’s because you’ve been helping me.”

“Yes, but it takes talent
and
skill to use magic, as well as hard work.”

“Thank you.”

Before turning to leave, his pack in hand and the book just passed to Odin, the high mage attempted to reach forward, but stopped halfway.

Nightmares haunted his sleep. A baby shrouded in a cloak; a storm brewing overhead; a purple-pink fire flowing from long, delicate fingers and into an infant’s chest—all this, but for what? A memory, a thought, a manifestation of something he had heard or read—what, he wondered, could this possibly be, if not a message from some outside source wishing him to remember something he could not possibly have experienced?

Just rising from his sleep in a fit of unease and mental torment, Odin sat up and pushed his hair out of his eyes, where soon after they sought out the window. A faint, yellow-gold light washed through the window, signifying the rise of the sun on the opposite side of the world. The sight alone was enough to make him consider just how good it would feel to go out and bask beneath its rays.

No.

He pushed the idea from his head. Such fantasies existed only in his mind and nowhere else. Should he allow such things to brew—fester, culminate,
coagulate
within his head—they would only morph into a knot separated from the rest of his body, and from there he would drift, unable to tell just what lay before him and what existed just outside the window.

When a knock came out the door, Odin settled back down onto the mattress and closed his eyes, not in the least wanting to deal with a guard bringing in breakfast. It was always cold and undercooked anyway—what use was there to play sympathy for someone who cared not for his condition?

When the door opened and the figure stepped closer into the room, the door behind him or her hitting the stone against the wall created a loud, disjointed echo that reverberated off the stones and threatened to swallow him whole.

Open your eyes,
a voice said.

Odin fought to keep them shut.

What reason did he have to show anyone who entered the respect they so rightfully didn’t deserve?

When he heard from the opposite side of the room the sound of the door closing and locking behind him or her, Odin opened his eyes to find a tray of food splayed out before him—arranged, purposely, on the single stool reserved for those from the outside world to seat themselves upon.

Daughtry?
he thought.
The king?

No. Despite the loyalty he served to the man under which he knew he would one day serve, he knew his attentions were set elsewhere—toward, he knew, the distant world, the lands beyond the border; especially Germa, where war seemed so ready to burst forth and swallow their kingdom whole. This would not have been a message from the king, but who could it possibly be?

Rather than dwell upon the message any longer, Odin reached forward and slapped it away from the platter of food.

Tomorrow,
the note said, in indecent, obviously-rushed writing.
Be ready.

“Well,” Daughtry said, having arrived much earlier in the day than usual upon what he called an ‘unexpected visit’ in which to discuss with him the conditions of his magical classes. “I don’t really know if there’s a lot else I can teach you, Odin. You grasp the knowledge far better than some young mages do.”

Odin guided the sphere of water he held in midair back above the wine glass poised between the two of them and allowed it to sweat its last beads of moisture before releasing his hold on it to dissipate entirely.

“Why, I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Given who you are and just what abilities you have, I’d be surprised if men weren’t
scrambling
to get their hands on you. By God, Odin—you’re exceptionally-fit for your age, which I believe we can both thank Master Jordan for, and by all things you’re a mage.” The older man paused. A frown painted his face in a somber light. “Why are you asking? You’re not worried, are you?”

“Not… really. I’m just having doubts is all.”

“Well, you shouldn’t, because you’re very talented. Hell—if you want me to let you in on a little secret, it’s every knight’s
dream
to have a squire who can cast magic.”

It was without purpose that Odin knew this in the form of memory. Scars lined the walls where once, in fits of rage, he had attempted to consolidate his situation by sending into the stonework blasts of magic that, upon normal reaction, would surely have burst free. It was not, however, without regret that he had done this, for when in the original moments after his act nothing had happened, he’d felt more immature than anything.
The walls,
Daughtry had said soon after, when examining the black marks on the stone,
are magicked. They are impervious to magic.

For this reason, and more, Odin considered himself something of a prodigy—a young man whom, regardless of his situation, did, in fact, have a gift. Though not reassured in the least, he nodded and crossed him arms over his chest as from the outside world he heard the locks and the metal bars sliding in and out of place. The screech of such metal against stone created the impression that they didn’t want to be pushed aside, as if they wanted the person whom they’d been guarding for the last two years to remain behind and within their confines for the entire rest of time.

I wouldn’t be surprised,
he thought, but didn’t betray his emotions.

The door opened to reveal weapons master Jordan—dressed, from head to toe, in fine colors of purple and red.

“Professor Daughtry?” Jordan asked, ducking into the enclosed space and taking his first few steps forward. “You wouldn’t happen to be finished with Odin, would you?”

Did I,
he began to think, but stopped before he could continue. His eyes had crossed with his weapons master’s and it seemed, in that moment, that the entirety of the world had fallen aside and only he and the much older man existed.

“Are you… are you sure?” Odin asked, standing, bracing himself for whatever was to come as Daughtry began to gather his things before bidding the pair of them his goodbyes.

“Of course I am.”

“You have permission to let me out of the tower?”

“Direct from the king itself,” Jordan said. As if to prove his point, he pulled from his belt a scrawl of parchment and unrolled it, revealing flush, ornate handwriting that had to have been trained for years on end by a practiced hand.

“You mean… there’s no way I can be taken away and put back in this tower?”

“You’ll have to return eventually, yes, after I’m done with you, but with this signed order from the king, I’m allowed to escort you through the grounds and introduce you to the number of knights who’ve arrived from the price of the kingdom. Why, there’s a few now whom I’ve specifically requested meet with you waiting right now.”

“Ruh… Really?” Odin asked.

He has to be joking,
he thought, breathing, trying his best to maintain control of his sanity as he stood before Master Jordan and tried his hardest not to tremble.
This has to be a joke.

If it were what he believed it was, then this joke, as sick as it was, had to have been devised by a number of people—including, but not limited to, Jordan himself and the guards whom had obviously taken their fair share of blows in order to make sure his existence within the tower was as much a living hell as possible. While he didn’t necessarily believe that Jordan would ever do such a thing, it made Odin wonder just whether or not that writing was true—that the piece of parchment, as official as it seemed, had been drafted by someone with naturally-neat handwriting and not the king itself, and that the decalaration, as official as it seemed, was nothing more than spit upon a poor man’s tongue.

Before him, Jordan offered a smile to reveal white, it somewhat-disjointed teeth.

“This is no joke?” Odin asked, settling his arms at his side.

“This is no joke,” Jordan replied. He gestured Odin forward with but a wave of his hand. “Come, Odin—we have people waiting for us.”

With nothing else to do than to follow, Odin took his first few steps forward.

He couldn’t help but smile.

Outside, an alien world assaulted him. The colors, so warm and vibrant; the air, so fresh and clean; the stone beneath his feet, so hard and sturdy; the air, rich, filled with heat and slicking the back of his throat back as if it were a swab of cotton testing the inside of his body for any kind of infection—to say that stepping out and into the air for the first time in years was exciting would have been to diminish the act, for his glee seemed much too apparent and the angst in his heart seemed all the less there. Joyous, ecstatic, his heart in knots and his mind threatening to overwhelm himself just by the fact that he was finally out of the tower alone—he paced behind weapons master Jordan with his hands free at his sides and his eyes set out and toward the distant training field: where, beyond the eastern towers, boys sparred and trained while being instructed by another of the weapons masters on the grounds.